Throughout the last half of Mr. Magic’s metamorphosis, Jason had ascended the remaining stairs and emerged on the top deck. He lowered into a hunch. Stealthily, he crawled down the aisle, heading toward the other end of the coach. He intended to get out of this compartment and slip into the next car, not because there was anything in there that might help him, but because, if he could delay a confrontation by putting as much distance as possible between them, he might be able to think of a way out of this.
The beast’s massive head turned. The glowing eyes found him.
“Jason,” it said in a deep, guttural voice that reflected not kindness but intense, inhuman hate.
Jason did not answer or look back. He broke into a run.
The creature roared, the noise rattling the thick windows. It came after him.
Clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack . . .
That mind-numbingly repetitive sound was like a drumbeat of doom to Linda. She had not given up on Jason. He was her son, her baby, and she would continue to give him the benefit of the doubt until she was dead ... but the extinguishing of the lights seemed to hint at ominous tidings.
Thomas had left her side. He stood at the window, face pressed against the glass. He had not spoken for several minutes. His silence distressed her more so than the relentless noises of the train.
“Do you see it?” she said, not sure she wanted to know the answer, only needing to break the silence.
He did not respond.
“I said, do you see it?”
Again he did not answer.
Fearing what she might see, she got up and went to the window. Thomas edged aside, giving her room. She gazed out into the night.
Far away, visible as little more than a speck in the darkness, a light twinkled. She had no idea how long it would be before that other train reached them, but as she watched, the light grew—ever so slowly—brighter. Closer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The beast was coming.
Jason sprinted down the aisle of the upper deck. He reached the stairs, jumped, and landed so hard on the bottom that stakes of pain shot through his knees. Not daring to look back, he threw open the door leading to the next coach and staggered through.
The creature shrieked.
Jason glanced behind him in time to see the beast’s needlelike tail whip forward and strike the door’s window. The glass shattered, and he shielded his eyes in order to avoid being blinded by the flying shards. He ran into the second car.
Halfway through the compartment, he stopped running. He realized that if he was going to have any chance of defeating this monster, he would have to fight back. Simply putting distance between them would not resolve anything. It would only postpone his certain death. He had to take a stand.
The beast slowly pushed through the door.
He bent, pulled up the leg of his jeans.
Thank God, the .22 gleamed in the ankle holster.
He withdrew the handgun. He gripped it as Brains had taught him, positioning himself in the shooter’s stance. Although he understood the importance of taking a stand, his hands trembled so badly, he feared every shot he fired would miss the mark.
Hissing, the creature emerged in the car. Its sapphire blue eyes burned like molten jewels, saliva glistening on its rows of crocodilian teeth. The thick tail snaked back and forth between its legs.
He squeezed the trigger one-two-three times, the gun’s report loud in the coach, rounds hitting the monster’s scale-covered chest with heavy thuds. Three tiny wounds appeared, but they neither gushed blood nor seemed to injure the beast. It strode forward without missing a step.
He backed up. Panic tugged at him, and he fought to maintain control of himself.
When his back met the door, he fired three more rounds.
Only two of them made contact. One struck the beast’s shoulder; the other grazed its neck. Neither harmed it at all.
Knowing it was useless, he pulled the trigger again. The gun clicked. No more bullets.
The creature roared triumphantly. It charged forward, teeth bared.
Jason spun and rushed through the door behind him, into the last car. He climbed the stairs to the upper deck.
The creature stalked through the door. Its claws flexed eagerly.
Jason moved backward along the aisle, one hand sliding on the railing. The beast’s head snapped in his direction. It charged forward and grabbed the metal railing in its claws. With a mighty jerk, it tore the barrier out of the wall. Steel shrieked. Screws popped loose. Jason tumbled forward with the railing, and the beast buckled and fell, too. It dropped backward and crashed into the lower-deck seats. The monster broke Jason’s fall; he landed on its scale-armored chest, the rail the only thing separating them.
Terror and revulsion flooded through him.
The beast’s forked, speckled tongue fluttered near his face. It hissed.
Its eyes glowed. The fall had taken the creature by surprise, but judging from its bright eyes, it had not been wounded.
He remembered the gun in his hand. He brought it up high, and jammed the muzzle into one of those burning eyes.
The beast screeched. It thrashed beneath him.
He twisted the pistol around in the socket. Acrid black smoke seethed from the wound, making him want to gag, but he gritted his teeth and continued to attack. He ground the gun deep, determined to reach the thing’s brain and squash it into mush.
The creature howled, squirming furiously.
He forced the .22 down into the skull. Die, you asshole. Die, die, die, die—
Something whacked against his head.
Crying out, he rolled off the creature’s chest and onto the floor. He groaned. He rubbed his throbbing head.
Through teary eyes, he saw the monster’s tail, dancing about like a charmed cobra. So that was what had hit him.
He got up, using a seat to balance himself. Nausea quivered through him. He choked it down with a great effort.
The creature was pushing the railing off.
He saw that the eye he had pummeled had already repaired itself. It shone wickedly, mockingly.
He wanted to cry. He had tried everything, and nothing had worked. The bastard was invincible. What else could he do?
The monster shoved off the railing. It began to sit up.
He looked to the door.
There was one last thing he could do, though it would not do any good.
Run.
Thomas and Linda stood side by side at the window.
Thomas found it hard to accept that everything he had worked for in his life had come down to this. He was no saint, but surely he deserved better. And if he did not, didn’t Linda merit a better end?
He could not answer those questions himself. But the way things were going, he would get the opportunity to hear God answer them soon.
The light of the oncoming train was faint, but it would be brighter than he would ever want in a minute or so.
He glanced at Linda. She watched the approaching train, her lips moving continuously, as though she were talking to herself. He listened closely. He realized she was praying.
He looked at the steadily brightening light.
He began to pray, too.
Panting, glancing over his shoulder every few steps, Jason burst into the last passenger car.
He looked around wildly, wondering where he should hide, wondering if there was any point in hiding. He heard the beast bellowing, drowning out the clackety-clack of the train. It sounded as though it had entered the second coach. Within a minute, it would overtake him, and this battle would be over.
He wished he had saved the last round in the .22. If he had kept it, he would not be debating with himself. He would have resolved his present concerns with a simple bullet in the head.
The creature thundered. Closer.
He retreated to the front of the compartment.
Remembering the train his parents were on, he put his face against the glass. He
could make out a yellow light, distant but gradually growing brighter.
He had hoped the trains would collide before the monster killed him. But it seemed that both disasters might occur at the same instant.
He heard a pitiful, whimpering sound. He realized the noise came from him.
There was nothing to do, nowhere left to run. He had tried everything. Everything had failed.
A thin fluid ran into the corner of his eye. Thinking it was sweat, he wiped away the substance. But when he caught sight of his hand, he saw blood on his fingers. He had probably got the injury when that bastard had popped him....
His eyes widened.
With the edge of his shirt, he quickly cleaned away the blood. He raised his hand to his face.
Black-green scales covered his hand.
Horrified, he turned over his hand. His palm was normal. Only the back of his hand, the area between his wrist and his knuckles, bore the scales. A small patch of repulsive malignancy.
Screwing up his courage, he touched a scale. It felt hard, like bone. He wriggled his fingers. Oddly, he could not feel the scales on his skin, could not feel any additional heaviness. His hand felt normal, as if it had been like this for his entire life.
But it had not been like this for his entire life. The transformation must have taken place recently. When Mr. Magic had metamorphosed ...
Jason’s heart knocked as understanding settled over him.
I have said this before, Jason, and I shall say it once more: We are part of each other, inseparable; the link we share is unbreakable. If you turn your back on me, you will, in effect, be turning your back on your own soul.
He examined his hand.
We are part of each other, inseparable; the link we share is unbreakable.
He looked at his hand again.
If anything proved the truth of Mr. Magic’s words, those scales did. The beast into which Mr. Magic had mutated wore the same shiny, two-toned armor. Which meant that, to a minuscule degree, Mr. Magic’s transformation into that creature had occurred within Jason, too. It was due to the mysterious link they shared.
If Mr. Magic could indirectly cause changes to Jason’s body, it was logical to assume that Jason could cause changes to Mr. Magic’s body, too.
He wondered why he had not thought of it before. It was simple; it made sense. He had created Mr. Magic. He had formed Mr. Magic from the stuff of his own imagination. He, Jason, had breathed life into him and set him loose in the world of daydreams. He was, in truth, a god compared to him. He could do whatever he wanted to Mr. Magic. He could wipe him out of existence. Just as he had brought him to life.
All he needed to do was use the proper weapon. Not a gun or a knife—his own imagination. The means he had used to create Mr. Magic could be the tool he could use to destroy him.
No sooner had he reached the conclusion than the beast shoved aside the door. It growled. When it saw Jason, its sapphire blue eyes blazed with triumph.
“No escape,” it said in a voice that was half snarl, half gurgle.
Jason did not run, did not turn away.
The creature rumbled forward, roaring.
Jason raised his hands so that the palms faced outward. He drew a deep breath.
Then, he imagined.
Shards of electric-blue energy crackled from his palms and struck the beast.
The creature howled and staggered to a standstill. Its glowing eyes, though filled with agony, seemed surprised.
Jason knew then, for certain, that he had uncovered the key to obliterating this entity. The creature had not counted on Jason’s ever discovering how to hurt it. Clearly, it was astonished.
But it refused to accept defeat. It charged Jason, as though it could rip him apart before he managed to destroy it.
Jason steadied himself and concentrated. Bolts of blue energy erupted from his palms and enveloped the beast in a fiery web. The monster stumbled backward, roaring in pain, black smoke steaming from its cracked scales. Shrieking, it spun around and whipped its wickedly pointed tail toward him.
Jason shot a sphere of blue fire at the flying tail, blowing it in half in midair. A jet of yellow fluid spurted from the ruptured appendage, and the curled sting dropped to the floor, reflexively jabbing the air like a dying wasp.
The monster grumbled, wounded but not dead. Its severed tail lay useless at its feet, liquid seeping from the ragged end. A horrible stench invaded the air.
“It’s over,” Jason said. “You never did have the real power. You’re the one who forgot what our relationship was really all about. I created you. Now I’m going to destroy you. Forever.”
The monster screeched defiantly. It gathered itself for one final attack.
Jason raised his hands.
The creature charged forward.
A giant orb of brilliant white light exploded from Jason’s palms. As the energy consumed the beast, earth-splitting thunder boomed, and an invisible force hurled Jason backward ... away from the disintegrating creature, out of the train, out of Thunderland, and into a realm of perfect darkness.
Linda recited prayers that she did not know she had learned. Although she believed in God, she had never been a churchgoing woman, and she was surprised by how coming face-to-face with death could generate a powerful yearning for God’s grace.
She clearly saw the light of the advancing train. It was less than a mile away. A locomotive of death.
By unspoken agreement, she and Thomas moved closer to each other. She found his hand, and he squeezed hers tightly.
There was no need to say anything, no need to reaffirm their love for each other. She could feel his love for her in the heat of his body, and she was certain he could feel her love for him, too. She had forgiven him for the wrongs he’d done. Holding on to bitterness and anger while teetering on the brink of death was impossible and pointless. She had never felt closer to her husband.
She only wished she could have held Jason one more time, to tell him she loved him and that she was sorry for everything—every terrible, foolish mistake she had made. She would’ve traded her life for one more chance to see him.
But the train was only a half-mile away.
Their coach began to rock.
Clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack . . .
A few hundred yards away.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” Thomas said.
She did as he said. In her final glimpse of the train, it seemed close enough to spit on.
Clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack . . .
Lord, please forgive my transgressions. I know I have not lived a perfect life, that I have not lived in complete harmony with your laws. But I beg you to have mercy on me—
There was an explosion of brilliant white light, so searingly bright that Linda saw it even though her eyes were closed. She heard herself scream.
Suddenly, darkness and silence.
She was afraid to look around. She thought she might be in hell or, worse, in a black void in which she would float for eternity. She felt someone shaking her. She heard Thomas’s voice.
“Sweet Jesus, baby. Look, look!”
She opened her eyes.
She was sitting in the Buick. Thomas was behind the steering wheel, and they were parked in the driveway of their house. In front of them, the automatic garage door had just finished opening. The night was clear and dry.
She looked down at herself. She did not have a single bruise or scrape, and her clothes were clean, as if she had merely been asleep for the past hour, not battling for survival. Thomas, too, appeared physically unaffected by what had happened.
Incredible. But what was most amazing of all was that they were alive.
She checked her watch. It read 9:14, but the second hand was not frozen; it swept around the dial at regular speed.
Giggling like a kid, Thomas switched on the radio. Luther Vandross sang “The Power of Love.”
Both of them looked at each other. They laughed.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m guessing that Jason had something to do with it.”
“You think he’s okay?”
“Let’s go see.” He drove the Buick into the garage. As he shut off the car, the door that connected the garage to the backyard opened. Looking weary, yet triumphant, Jason walked through the doorway.
Brains awoke in his bedroom.
Slowly he sat up in bed. The family photo album lay beside him, closed. He stared at it as he might have stared at an ancient artifact. He wondered who had placed it there, and why.
When he picked up the album and opened it, his memory of everything that had happened returned. He remembered shooting at Mr. Magic in the house and escaping by climbing through a window. Running for miles. Fighting Mr. Magic on the bridge. Mr. Magic hurling him over the railing. Falling, falling, falling ... and imagining himself surviving the impact.
Imagining himself surviving the impact.
Excited, he leaped to his feet. He read his watch.
The digits had switched to 9:15.
He dashed out of the bedroom and ran outside.
Across town, colorful fireworks exploded in the clear night sky.
Giddy laughter overcame him. He sat on the veranda bench, rocked with giggles. He probably sounded like someone who had lost his mind, but he didn’t care. He had been saved. By a miracle. Even if he laughed until tomorrow morning, that wouldn’t express his sudden, profound happiness to be alive.
Sore and weary to the marrow, Jason shuffled toward his dad’s car. Mom and Dad, looking nearly as exhausted as he was, got out of the Buick.
Jason stopped.
Pressed close together, Mom and Dad stopped, too.
Jason looked at them. They looked back at him.
Silence hung between them.
Dad said, “We made it, thanks to you, son. You saved all of us. How in God’s name did you do it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jason said. “It’s over. I don’t want to dwell on the past. I want to let it go.”
Thunderland Page 28
